University of Tennessee, Knoxville University of Tennessee, Knoxville TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative Exchange Exchange Chancellor’s Honors Program Projects Supervised Undergraduate Student Research and Creative Work 5-1999 My Body of Work My Body of Work Maureen Ann Mooney University of Tennessee - Knoxville Follow this and additional works at: https://trace.tennessee.edu/utk_chanhonoproj Recommended Citation Recommended Citation Mooney, Maureen Ann, "My Body of Work" (1999). Chancellor’s Honors Program Projects. https://trace.tennessee.edu/utk_chanhonoproj/330 This is brought to you for free and open access by the Supervised Undergraduate Student Research and Creative Work at TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative Exchange. It has been accepted for inclusion in Chancellor’s Honors Program Projects by an authorized administrator of TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative Exchange. For more information, please contact [email protected].
Transcript
University of Tennessee, Knoxville University of Tennessee, Knoxville
TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative
Exchange Exchange
Chancellor’s Honors Program Projects Supervised Undergraduate Student Research and Creative Work
5-1999
My Body of Work My Body of Work
Maureen Ann Mooney University of Tennessee - Knoxville
Follow this and additional works at: https://trace.tennessee.edu/utk_chanhonoproj
Recommended Citation Recommended Citation Mooney, Maureen Ann, "My Body of Work" (1999). Chancellor’s Honors Program Projects. https://trace.tennessee.edu/utk_chanhonoproj/330
This is brought to you for free and open access by the Supervised Undergraduate Student Research and Creative Work at TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative Exchange. It has been accepted for inclusion in Chancellor’s Honors Program Projects by an authorized administrator of TRACE: Tennessee Research and Creative Exchange. For more information, please contact [email protected].
----------------------------------------------------------. . 1 ted senior honors thesis with this student and certify !h~~~~ ~e:l~';:c~~~=!n:urate with honors level undergraduate research in this
field.
Signed: --W_ga_~¥l~--------------, Faculty ~entor Da te: ------f.LL~L_f..~-------Comments (Optional):
J trhe Sisters of Wen~y an~ other poems an~ stories of the d'an triBer Lily 1
aelle of the d'iccaninny trribe 2
Wen~y 18 dJlue, tChorns an~ All 19 tChe Sisters of Wen~y 22
(])(}{2k 33 trinker dJell 35
All trhese d'retty dJoys 36
Afterthou~ht: A trinker dJell Story 39
'Jrom: tL'he SIIUf/ II/ tL'iuKer tSell 54
J)
d'oetry from La~y rJrankenstein La~y rJrankenstein ao~y 01 Work Write Your name in the Space d'rovi~e~ Her-sterical d'ump de. Circumstance
}}}
eleBies de. lullabies ma~ (])o~ an~ mirt Wee~ Jnterlu~e
Cioo~ni~ht
lullaby #1
lullaby #2
56 57 59 61 65
67 70 71 72
73
rche Sisters of Wen~y
an~ other stories an~ poems of the d'an
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
I want to <trite a love poem,for the girls I kissed in seventh grade . ..
- c\farie Howe ~
They gave her the part because of her long dark hair, the longest in Mrs. Robini's
drama class-maybe the longest hair in the entire school. Nobody ever thought to
measure it. At a time when girls were favoring shaggy cuts with blow-dried and curled
wings, or sassy Dorothy Hamil bobs, Katie \vore her tresses an inch shy of her bottom. Her
female classmates would toss their fashionable dos about, whip out bottles of Aqua Net from
their gym lockers, creating an aerosol i()g in the bathroom, while Katie silently plated her
locks into a heavy braid, fastening it with a colorful elastic band. The braid slithered down
her back-a black snake nipping at her coccyx; her forehead stretched tight from the weight:
she always looked surprised.
Mrs. Robini had been eyeing that hair all year, so when the announcement came that
the spring play would be "Peter Pan," she hounded Katie to audition for the part of the Indian
Princess. "You're our Tiger Lily!" she'd ooze, fondling the braid with her fat fingers. "You're
perfect!" Katie stood with her knees locked, fists clenching inside the pockets of her coat,
tearing that her lunch of macaroni and cheese would soon make its way back through her
esophagus. Hitching a bit, she !O\vered her eyes, fixed them on a spot right in front of Mrs.
Robini's red pumps, wondering ifshe could aim for a target.
Katherine Theresa O'Shea was a girl. Her mother wanted that fact emphasized to the
nth degree. The seventh child of a hardworking Irish-I talian Catholic family, Katherine was
the youngest and the only child to fall into the category deemed the secoml sex. 1\1rs. O'Shea
(nee Rataglia) presumably kept up the act of reproduction until she produced a girl, and
Belle of the Piccaninny T"ibe
hen -unbeknownst to the Church or Mr. O'Shea-she dutifully underwent tubal legations to
prevent the surprise appearance of yet another son. Katherine was the girl, the doll for
dressing and the hair for primping. If you looked in I{atherine's closet-being the only girl
she was the only child in the O'Shea house to claim a bedroom for herself and theretc)re a
closet-you would find a wealth of dresses, pinafores, skirts, and crinolines. What you would
not find was a pair of pants, jeans, culottes or shorts. Not even the deceptive skort was
allowed to grace Katherine's body. Along with the dress rule, Katherine was not permitted to
cut her hair. Trimmings were performed six times a year by Mrs. O'Shea: "!fI take you to the
parlor, the,Frst thing they'll try to do is give youfcathers! Remember what happened when you 'were
three!?" Katie did not remember, but had the entire incident recited to her each time her
mother sat her in the kitchen for a trim.
"All those beautiful curls! Gone." She \'wuld whip around to the front of the chair,
shears in hand. "I was only gone for five minutes!" She held her palm up to Katherine's face,
displaying all five digits. "You've had straight hair ever since." There was no arguing with
Mrs. O'Shea. The lost curls were kept in an envelope that came out once a year lest Katie
forget. "Look at those sweet curls," her mother would place her hand amidst the wispy, dark
locks and shiver.
It wasn't on account of wanting to be Tiger Lily that she sat there; she really had no
desire to pursue a stage career. On the day of auditions, Katie cowered in the back row of the
auditorium, twirling her hair around her wrists. That morning she'd woven her hair into two
fat braids instead of one, attempting to look the part. It was imperative that she be as perfect
as Mrs. Robini claimed because Patty Limerick was a shoe-in for the part of Pan, and Katie
had loved Patty since the t()urth grade.
3
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
They had shared a social studies pro,iect, builring a diorama of the Sahara desert '''''ith
glue-on sand, Play.--School people wrapped in striped caftans, and Palm trees fashioned from
number two pencils and ~reen construction paper. Patty had fussed over Katie's hair, petting
it, \'nmderin~ over it lovin~ly. "My mother won't let me "vear my hair long anymore," she
would rub the bare spot at the base of her thin neck. "She says it's too hard to keep."
For the three weeks before the project came due the two would meet in Patty's rec
room planning out their project, reading entries from The Book ~lKnowledge or Encyclopedia
Britanica: "The Sahara Desert in northern "'1lrica is the largest desert in the world. It spans the
continentfrom the Atlantic Ocean to the fled Sea and atends northwardfrom the Niger fliver and
Lake Chad to the Atlas ,\'fountains and the iUediierranean Sea." And when their research became
dull, they'd pull bedsheets from the line in Patty's backyard pretending to be escaping
slavegirls from a Bedouin harem. Sometimes Katie would bring her Barbies along, and they'd
dress them in the glittery outfits Patty's grandmother had made for the busty dolls: ball
gowns, bathing suits, lingerie, suits, and fashionable dresses copied from Vogue.
For three weeks Patty was Katie's best friend, a friendship which included a sleepover
one Saturday night where they sat up and pondered the naked women in Qui and Penthouse
that Patty had swiped from beneath her older brother's mattress. But at the end of twenty
one days, they turned-in their project with a four page paper describing all the pertinent facts
and figures about the worlds largest sandbox ( "The name Sahara isfrom the Arabic word.for
'desert' or 'steppe.' "), and without looking back, Patty returned to her old friends: the girls that
would come to primp their puffy locks in the locker room before class. There was no
explanation for this betrayal of burgeoning friendship other than peer pressure or the fact that
Teerza Zurpowski had a new indoor! outdoor pool, or her parents' insistence that she spend
more time and effort at her gymnastic class. \Vith that, Katie spent the next three years
worshiping Patty from the chasm of lunchroom tables or rows of desks-a distance that
seemed as remote and broad as the Sahara. The girl was far too polite to demand justification
4
Belle of the Piccaninny Tl'ibe
or apology.
There in the back of the auditorium she sat while each student mounted the stage,
recited a passage or two, and then Patty had her turn: ''!' II teadl you how to jump on the wind's
back and then away we go. TFendy, when you are sleeping in your sil~y bed you might be flying about
with me, saying funny things to the stars." And she bounded across the stage with her thin
tumbler's body, her short, frothy hair making a perfect landing on her head. When Mrs.
Robini called Katie to the stage, she had the girl deliver Tiger Lily's line "like you're the
Queen of all little Indian girk" "Pirates! Have um scalpsP "Vhatyou s~yP" Katie had her arms
folded across her premature breasts in every way a princess, in every way the "belle of the
Piccaninny tribe."
"You were wonderfuL" Patty rubbed the almost Indian princess's shoulder. "You're
hair looks so much like it ought to."
Katie smiled and lowered her eyes. "You were perfect." But Patty was already
bouncing out the backstage door with Teerza-who would most likely be Wendy-talking
about what it would feel like to be fixed into the harness while they soared over the stage.
Katie arrived at school early on Monday morning, waiting at the auditorium doors for
Mrs. Robini to post the cast list "As if you had any doubt," her heals clicking, her voice
echoing in the still empty hallway. "All you had to do was show up sweetie." She pressed
thumb-tacs into the long sheet of yellow legal paper fastening it to the door. Katie dragged
her finger down the list of names; Patricia Limerick-Peter Pan; Teerza Zurpowski-Wendy
Darling; a list of other students including names of the high school students who would play
Mr. and Mrs. Darling, Captain Hook, and the Piccaninny braves. There was Katie's named
wedged between Smee and Panther: Katherine O'Shea-Tiger Lily. At the bottom of the list:
5
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
Please initial this list to let me know that you have
accepted your role. Our first rehearsal will be
ll'ednesday at 7:00 PAJ. Please pick your scripts up at
the '!ffice from Miss lVindsor. lVe will be doing a
read-thru and 1 will give you your rehearsal schedule
at that time.
Katie pulled a fat marker from the pencil box in her bookbag and wrote in a heavy
hand KO. She would bide her time until Wednesday night.
The read-through went well; Katie felt as though she was a part of something special
surrounded by the Juniors and Seniors from the adjoining high school. Mrs. Robini had
everyone sit in a big circle on the stage; everyone taking turns introducing themselves. Patty
and Teerza sat beside one another, giggling, trying to flirt with the boy who was playing
Hook by flipping their hair and wiggling about on the floor like slippery fish. Across the big
circle Katie sat (Indian style) between a fifth grader who was playing Michael and a little
second-grader decked-out in wings who would play a fairy. She watched Katie with
unashamed admiration, delivered her lines perfectly and sat perfectly still for the remainder of
the read-through. At the end the rehearsal Mrs. Robini passed out the schedule, and Katie's
heart dropped as she read in the bleeding purple script of the mimeographed sheet that she
would only be needed once a week. "But is it all right if! come anyway?" Her eyes searched
the drama teacher's heavily made-up face. "Just to watch. I'd like to come and watch."
"If you're quiet." which was a ridiculously simple request to make of a girl who never
spoke in class unless asked to speak.
Katie came the next night to watch Mrs. Robini block Act 1. To her surprise, Patty
6
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
plunked her muscular bottom in the seat beside her. "They don't need me 'til later," was the
explanation. And that was Patty's first words for countless nights; whenever Mrs. Robini
rehearsed Act 1. The two girls would sit quietly together in the velvety seats of the dark
auditorium seats watching the play into a stilted delivery oflines and chalky movement into a
living fairy tail. Once costumes and were incorporated, they would sit in the wings behind
the backdrop of the Jolly Roger and listen to Teerza attempt an English accent and the boy
playing Nana the sheepdog barking wildly as he struggled to carry the pudgy little Michael
across the stage. "You don't mind helping me into my harness?" Patty asked one night, and
Katie strapped the girl into the leather and nylon bindings, securing the riggings tightly
across Patty's knobby little breasts, pulling the buckles between her sturdy thighs, clinching
the band against her vagina and buttox.
"Too tight?" she'd ask, tugging at the belt.
"It won't ever feel comfortable." Patty wiggled in the harness, stepping up and down.
"Go get Mr. Robini so he can check it." It was OK fix Katie to help Patty into her harness,
but there would be no flight until Mrs. Robini's husband Tony had given final approval. And
Katie would hunker down behind the Jolly Roger watching as two of the bigger high school
boys tugged at the pulleys that allowed Peter Pan to take flight.
Once the show opened, Katie didn't get to talk to Patty very much. Everyone was
nervous, rushing around making sure the play went off without a hitch. Teerza always forgot
some of her lines in the first act, Hook was notorious for losing his wig (once it was yanked off
his head when Michael Darling flew in too low during the big fight scene on the Jolly Roger),
and the gradeschool children usually had a finger up a nose as well as a tendency to spot
relatives in the audience. But Patty was perfect, always on her mark, never a line forgotten,
sailing through the air as though she was born to it. Katie f(mnd herself in the dressing room
quite a bit fending off Mrs. Robini who had taken a personal interest in making sure Tiger
Lily looked spectacular: "I played her on Broadway you know," she chimed as she braided gold
7
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
silk ribbons into Katie's hair.
During all of this Teerza had been in a continuous state of flirtation with Andrew
Morgan who played her brother John. As rehearsals progressed and opening night grew
closer, the boy began to return Teerza's affections leaving Patty to seek out Katie's quiet
companionship.
"You go horne the same way I do don't you?" Patty caught Katie's arm on her way out
the backstage door after a Sunday matinee performance.
"Yeah, but I turn off on Pine, and you usually go straight to Bank Street." She shifted
her bookbag on her shoulder. "And I road my bike. You always walk because you're closer."
"I walk because my mother won't let me ride my bike." Patty sighed and kicked at a
clump of cigarette butts left by Mr. and Mrs. Darling. "She's afraid I'll get hit by a car or fall
ofl' and break my arm or something." The lithe girl rolled her eyes. "She wants me to make
the national gymnastics team. I had to beg her into letting me do this play."
The moon was just coming up behind the pine trees that surrounded the baseball field.
It was warm for April, and the girls had their jackets tied around their waists. Patty's was a
blue warm-up jersey with red and white stripes down one arm. She fiddled with the
elasticized band of the sleeve, thumbing the little patch of five interlocking rings that
decorated the edge. "They think I'm going to make it into the summer Olympics next year."
Katie imagined sitting in front of the television in her living room pointing to the
screen, telling her mom, "That's my friend Patty." How her mom would call her dad to the
room and say, "Katie has a little friend in the Olympics." And perhaps, if her mom found
Patty teminine enough in her little leotard, she might be able to talk her mother into allowing
her a haircut like Patty's or even a warm-up suit like the girls on the Olympic team got to
wear.
"That would be cool," was all Katie could manage.
"Do you think you could ride me home on your bike? I can ride on the handlebars."
8
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
"I don't think I know how." She slipped her bag into the basket on the back and began
to work the lock of the chain wrapped around the front tire.
"Then I'll ride you." Patty mounted the banana seat. "Teerza and I do it all the time
when mother isn't looking. Hop on," she smiled and patted the handlebars.
Katie paused for a moment, weighing the significance of the opportunity. "But I'm
heavier than you."
"No. We weigh the same."
"I don't think-"
"I heard your weight called out in gym class," came the explanation. "115. I'm all
muscle, and it weighs a lot." She snatched Katie's hand and placed it on her thigh. "Feel." At
first Katie let her hand rest, and then she flexed her fingers into the denim kneading the
resistant flesh.
"It's hard!" she pulled her hand away quickly.
"It's all muscle. That's why I don't wear skirts." Patty pointed at the hem of Katie's
jumper. "Not like you. My thighs look like logs."
"Mine look like sticks."
"You have pretty legs Katie. That's why Mrs. Robini had your costume made short
instead oflong."
"I thought it was because the first costume they had wouldn't fit around my chest."
She looked down at her swelling breasts as they tried to burst their way out of the neat cotton
blouse her mom had pressed that morning.
"What? Are you kidding?" Patty reached out and gently tapped the side of Katie's
right breast "Your boobs looked great in that."
With a slight shiver, Katie stepped backward. "Shouldn't we be getting home?"
9
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
Patty was an excellent rider. The muscles of her thighs and calves pushed the bike
forward into the warm night. With her hands gripping the center of the handlebars, Katie
held on, swinging her legs out and forward to avoid running them into the tire. They road
down Bank Street in silence, the breeze blowing into their faces, causing their eyes to water a
little and Katie's braids to t1y back slightly. When they were a block away from the Limerick
house, Patty slowed to a stop and dismounted, helping Katie from the handlebars.
"I can't let my mother see me riding like this; she'll be mad at me." They walked the
rest of the way, Katie pushing the bike. She felt like she had in the forth grade, like suddenly
she was the girl her mother tried to make her. She could talk about girl things, ask girl
questions.
"Is Teerza going out with Andrew Morgan?"
"I guess." Patty walked a little faster then turned around and walked backwards,
swinging her arms back and forth. "They went to the movies last weekend together. They
hang out a lot after school"
"Don't you miss her?"
Patty shrugged and turned herself around facing forward again. "It's not like I got to
see her a lot anyway. I have to go to gymnastics class right after school every day." She
slowed and looked over at Katie. "There's going to be a ca<;t party after the la<;t show on
Saturday night."
"Yeah, I know. Are you going?"
"Can't. Mother's afraid I'll get drunk with the high school boys or something."
"Oh." For weeks Katie had been looking forward to closing night and the cast party.
Now the upcoming event lost a bit of its luster and appeal.
"But if you're not going, you could sleepover if you want."
10
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
"Yeah. Sure." Her stomach did a flip flop. "I'll ask my mom, but I'm sure she'll let
me. "
They were at Patty's front door; the glow of the yellow porch light painted their faces
jaundice. The sound of the Limerick's television leaked out into the evening. Before Katie
knew what was happening, Patty leaned over and hugged her, placing a lip-glossed kiss on
her cheek. "See you tomorrow."
In bed that night Katie stared at the ceiling, imagining the Limerick house the way she
remembered it: the red shag carpet in the rec-room, the cushiony sectional sofa in the living
room, the smell oflilacs from the tree outside if Patty's window. Mrs. Limerick always made
popcorn, and Patty only had to share the bathroom with her one brother, not six like at
Katie's house. Before she had gone to bed that night she had packed her overnight bag with
her best pajamas: a short pink nightgown with eyelet lace around the sleeves and matching
panties with a pink satin rose sewn to the \vaist band.
The week dragged by for Katie as she anticipated Saturday and the sleepover. Even
the excitement of Friday's performance (Hook lost a tooth when one of the pirates misdirected
a stage punch in his direction) couldn't take her mind otf of Patty's invitation On Saturday
she arrived at the auditorium early, having walked the ten blocks from her house lugging her
overnight bag. She thought her best option was to put her mind on the show, and so she
began her Tiger Lily preparation early. She even allowed Mrs. Robini a little more time on
her hair and makeup before lurching out of her seat, almost missing her entrance. At curtain
call, the audience gave everyone a standing ovation, and three roses were sent to the stage
one for Patty, one for Teerza (who, in this eleventh hour performance, had finally remembered
all of her lines in), and one for Katie-care of the Limerick family.
11
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
Backstage "vas a madhouse as all the young actors gathered their possessions which
had collected on shelves and corners over the last two months. Mrs. Robini cried and hugged
everyone to the point of asphyxiation before they could leave the building: "You have made
me so proud," she'd gurgle and sob. Patty had changed into tight jeans and a T-shirt with a
iron-on of Fleetwood-Mac emblazoned across her chest and was washing the makeup from
her face when Katie approached the sink to do the same. "No. Don't." Patty took the
washcloth from Katie's hand. "It looks really good tonight. Enjoy it." With that, Patty
,<valked over to Katie's bag and replaced the washcloth.
The Mrs. Limerick was waiting for the two girls in the parking lot in front of the
school in her big, blue Chrysler: "You girls want some pizza?" This was a hig treat for Patty
because her mother usually didn't allow "junk food" past her daughter's pre-Olympiad lips,
but tonight was special because Patty had a guest, and it was the last night of the play. They
went to Pontillo's and ordered a double-cheese with pepperoni and mushrooms, sat in a back
booth by the jukebox, drank a pitcher of Coke, and watched the high school boys play pool.
Before they left, Katie excused herself to go to the bathroom. ''I'll go with you," chimed Patty,
and they both scooted past the pool players who whistled at Katie, still in silken braids and
makeup.
"Lay om" Patty sneered at the group. The girls barricaded themselves III the
bathroom, giggling.
"What was that about?" Katie said from within the stall.
"Well, look at you!" Patty pulled herself up to peer over the door, hanging there like a
monkey. "You're all, I don't know, you're really foxy tonight."
The blush that painted Katie was not reserved for her face; it began at her ankles and
made its way up her legs and into her stomach. "Ya think?"
"You're a hot mama," Patty winked and dismounted. "Mother's going to make us go
right to bed when we get horne you know. We have to go to mass in the morning, but we can
12
Belle of the PiccaniImy Tribe
hang out some afterwards."
"That's OK." Katie wiped herself and flushed. When she stepped from the stall, she
saw Patty sitting on the edge of the sink shaking her head.
"Y up. One hot mama."
Moonlight shown through Patty's bedroom window. Katie knew this because she had
lain awake for the last hour staring at the great yellowy disk wondering at this moment.
"Are you awake?"
The voice startled her, and she briefly contemplated faking a quick snore but thought
better of it.
"Good. I can't sleep." Patty rolled over on her side and rose slightly to lean on her
elbow. "You looked really pretty tonight."
Katie continued to stare out the window. "Thanks. But I . .. I'm just sick of
being ... "
Patty reached her free hand out tugged on Katie's braid. "I wish I had hair like yours."
"That's just it. I wish I could cut the whole thing off. It gives me headaches."
"That's because you tie it up in knots all the time." she sat up and slowly began to
unfasten the braid she had been fondling. "Let's set it free."
Patty's hands worked deliberately at removing the rubber ties and then untwining the
braids and ribbons. Each thick plait came free, raven and kinked from its bondage, and fell
across Katie's pink nightgown. Patty worked her fingers into the strands, spreading them
out, fanning them across Katie's breasts and stomach. She brought her hands up to Katie's
scalp and smoothed the hair out at the roots, rubbing the skull and pressing her thumbs
gently into the temples. "How does that feel? Better?"
13
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
If there were words for how Katie felt at that moment, she could not remember them.
As Patty massaged the skin of her head, she fell into a slight stupor. The queer feeling of
excitement and relaxation entered her skin at the same time, and she could only groan a
sound of acquiescence.
"Have you ever kissed a hoy Katie?" fingers moving from head to neck.
"No. Have you?" moonlight oozing onto the coverlet.
"No." Patty's face was so close now. Her breath was still sweet with Colgate. "We
could pretend though?" Her hands danced along Katie's throat and dwindled at the top of the
breastbone. Her mouth grazed the side of Katie's face. "I won't tell."
Katie turned her head and met Patty's mouth with her own. The first soft shock of
skin upon skin sent a spasm through her bellybutton and down into the warm spot between
her legs. She pressed her lips a little harder against Patty's mouth, and the girl returned the
pressure, this time forcing lips apart with a minty tongue. Hands began to move away from
neck and away from the sides of the body and explore breasts and back and stomach,
traversing the skin as though a great desert, searching for an oasis. Patty t(mnd it first.
Hand against the pelvis, finger on the small knob of flesh which when pressed, caused
Katie to quiver and incline herself against the finger. Tongue on neck, on ear, on shoulder.
Teeth gently nipping. Katie's hand found the waistband of satin panties, the tight, round
muscle of a gymnast's buttox; her hands moved to push away the fabric, and Patty moved her
legs to free herself
Fingers pushing and wiggling. Lips searching for a nipple. The moon glowing off of
the skin of two thirteen-year-old girls as they both found a place that made the other tremble
with a seismic flutterings. And then they curled into each other sleeping harder and deeper
than they realized could be possible.
14
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
In the morning neither of them took communion using failure to have made confession
as an excuse. In the afternoon Patty showed Katie her trophy case which her father had built.
It was packed with plaques and medallions and statuesque awards topped with dainty women
in graceful poses. On the middle shelf, between a short golden trophy for tumbling and a first
place plaque for her team was the diorama. Patty pulled it out carefully and handed it to
Katie.
"You kept this?"
"As a reminder."
"To what?" Katie stared lovingly at the pencil palm trees.
"You." Her hand rested on Katie's shoulder.
"But you stopped being my friend after we turned this in .... "
"No. You stopped talking to me after I started going to gymnastics class every day
after schooL" Patty looked hard at Katie.
"You started hanging around Teerza." She felt like slapping this elf-like girl; standing
there, lying to her face.
"Teerza has lived across the street form me since first grade. Of course I hang out
with her." Both of Patty's hands were clasped talon-like on Katie's shoulders now. Her voice
was insistent. "We, I mean, me and you, were friends and then suddenly you didn't talk to me
because you thought I dumped you for Teerza?"
Katie lowered her eyes and studied the little people in the tiny desert. There was a
little mirror under a palm tree to represent the oasis. She could see her reflection and her face
becoming pink and her hair (still down the way Patty liked it) fell across her cheek in waves
and waves of black. "Yes."
The talons that had been digging into Katie's shoulders loosened. A cool hand came
15
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
up, brushed the hair from her face, wiped a tear from her cheek. A kiss landed softly on her
forehead. The diorama disappeared from her hands as Patty placed it back on the shelf and
closed the glass doors of the case.
"C'm on." They went outside and sat in the faded wooden seats of Patty's old
swingset. The wind blew Katie's hair gently, caught the hem of her skirt and made it rustle
and lift against her knees.
"Mother and I are going to Colorado next week." Patty's voice was low and serious.
"She and my coach think it's the only way I'll make the Olympic team."
Katie thought she was going to throw up. Her hands gripped the heavy steel chains
that linked swing seat to bar. "So you're moving? Before the end of term?"
"Dad doesn't think it's a good idea, but he pretty much does what mother says." The
swings swayed back and forth, and their feet pushed in the dirt below creating little clouds of
dust. "I just want you to know that, because when I go, I don't want you to think I'm not
your friend."
From where she sat, Katie could see the window of Patty's bedroom and the lilac tree
which was beginning to lose its bloom. She couldn't remember smelling it the night before.
She rose from her seat and walked across the yard, broke ofl two blooms, walked back to the
swingset and handed one to Patty. The wind came up a bit harder and rustled her hair,
blowing it into Patty's face. Patty took some of it in her hands and breathed it in along with
the scent of the lilac bloom. "God. I wish I had your hair." Their eyes met, and for a moment
it seemed they could read each others minds.
"Do me a favor?" Katie swept her long tresses over Patty's shoulders.
A week later Patty and her mother drove the big, blue Chrysler to Colorado. Mrs.
Limerick became chummy with the father's of one of Patty's teammate, and by December, had
16
Belle of the Piccaninny Tribe
set up permanent residence in Denver. Teerza and Andrew stopped seeing each other when
Teerza's father found out Andrew was the son of a Baptist preacher and not a good Catholic
boy. Mrs. Robini took a job at the community college teaching theatre and speech classes to
students who would someday become medical assistants and x-ray technicians.
Patty would end up breaking her arm in a dismount, preventing her from placing on
team America, but her mother was awarded custody, so she remained in Denver. Her father
had the trophy case sent out minus one object but including something much more valuable.
Each night bef()re the two went to sleep, Katie flipped her short hair in the mirror of
the tiny diorama oasis, while Patty fondled long black tresses braided into a rope with silk
ribbons and the withering blooms of spring lilacs.
17
Blue, Thorns and All
ThL~ is my Emotional Baggage: 1 carry it around with me like a passport, like American Express, like a driver's license, like condoms and spermicide.
My Emotional Baggage is always in the middle of the floor
blocking my path . .. always on the stairwell
waiting to trip me up ... always collecting in corners
Like dust under couches, Like 29f, stamps, Like out rif date magazines, Like books I mean to read, Like pens out l!! ink, Like unfi'nz:~hed 100Je letters, Like Ihe Glass Menagerie
... like blue roses . .. like blue roses . ..
My Emotional Baggage won't fit in the overhead compartment nor pass through customs.
(Yes, IT has been out rifm), sightfor more thanfive minutes. Yes, I have been approached by someone. He has asked me to carry somethingfor him in my baggage. My Emotional Baggage is carrying contraband. and I can't afford the import duties anyway. I always try leaving IT at the airport, but when I arrive at my destination, IT l~' always there on the luggage carousel . .. circling . .. circling.)
She travels fastest who travels lightest; She travels faster who travels alone ...
I do not open my Emotional Baggage, not on purpose. But sometimes ...
"when I attempt to shove it under the bed to clear the way Jor another new lover . ..
19
It smelL~ like cheap beer, tastes like stale perfume.
(like blue roses) It smells like cold criffie, tastes like dirty sheets.
(like blue roses) It smells like the tenuous, salty h~ses of dark-haired boys, like salty kisses
like tenuous boys (like blue roses)
like boys it tastes like dried semen. It smells like-
like boys . ..
like boys . .. it smelL~ tenuous
like boys. like tenuous boys,
(like blue roses)
It is blue thorns and all.
21
Blue, Thorns and All
I do not open my Emotional Baggage, not on purpose. But sometimes ...
'when my Irish 1:\' up and the whiskey numbs my throat and I'm almost out cif cigarettes . ..
I do not open my Emotional Baggage, not on purpose. But sometimes ...
when I hear the metallic twang (if a steel tfuitar or the hurling hush '!f a 8:00 AM Santa Fe freight train or when I play Joni Mitchell's Blue ...
I do not open my Emotional Baggage, not on purpose. Never on purpose. But sometimes, .. sometimes ... the lock pops, the zipper splits, the Velcro rips like leather, vinyl, like nylon lips ... open and screaming ...
I packed in a hurry, packed without looking or thinking orI packed in a hurry.
Three-day-old black cotton panties piled and twisted, twisted and crumpled beside freshly laundered faded button fly blue jeans ...
I packed in a hurry, and I can't separate the dirty from the clean.
I packed in a hurry, and now it all smells like I've worn it once too often.
My Emotional Baggage smells blue like stale perfume, dirty sheets, and dried semen. My Emotional Baggage tastes blue like cheap beer, cold coffee, and the tenuous, salty kisses of dark-haired boys. It smells ...
smells like blue roses ... like blue roses thorns and alL
20
Blue, Thorns and All
The Sisters of Wendy
He had an unusually well developed penis for a boy, something more man-sized. I say
this in retrospect, having had experience with a number of penises both large and small.
None of the women prepared me for this; it was never mentioned in the stories or in
Grandmother Darling's diaries. How any of them could omit this outstanding fact surprises
me. Perhaps it ""'as polite embarrassment on their part. Although I can't imagine my mother
not mentioning it; her memories are quite explicit-graphic to the point where as a child I
was often asked to leave the room. She would explain their lovemaking in perfect detail,
reliving every gasp and moan and quiver.
The first time he came to me I was sixteen--over the hill by my family's standards.
My great-great-great-Grandmother was ten, her daughter Jane was nine, Great-Grammie
Mirra was two days shy of her tenth birthday, Grammie was visited at eleven, and mother
was the youngest at eight. His late appearance in my life had more to do with my Grammie's
intervention than Peter's fi)rgetfulness. Hoping to end the "legacy," Grammie had mother
practicing the rhythm method soon after the young girl's cycle began. But as many Catholic
women will tell you, this technique is hardly foolproof So when mother became pregnant
with me, Grammie and Papa George packed us all up (me, still well-ensconced in my mothers
fourteen-year-old belly) and moved us to the States where she believed we would be safe once
and for all.
I grew up in the shadow of Kensington middle-class, English propriety-Grammie
rushing around the house as if she were still under the matriarchal eye of the Queen; Papa
George humbly accepting his role as grandfather at thirty-five; mother grasping her pillow at
night, weeping for her lost love. I went about oblivious to the severity of our particular
situation: until I was fifteen, I thought Grammie was my mother. Lindsey was presented to
me as my crazy older sister (which isn't far from the truth considering our identical paternal
connection) who I should take with a hefty grain of salt. Other than that, I had a "normal"
childhood.
22
The Sisters of Wendy
The maternal history of my family is the stuff of twentieth century legend. There are
those that are privy to the unusual parentage of each new daughter of Wendy-midwives in
particular-and those that perpetuate the rumor through speculation and association. Our
family tree is decidedly lopsided. When I say that Wendy was the mother of us all, it is
figurative. When I say Peter is the father of us all, it is fact:
Peter b. ?
Jane b. 1899
Mirra b. 1917
Lindsey b. 1952
Wendy (me) b. 1966
Peter has never fathered a son, nor have any of his progeny (excepting Wendy) ever
reproduced a sibling for the children of Peter. Wendy went on to six attempted births-three
miscarriages, two stillborn, and a daughter that survived for six hours before the tiny child's
lungs collapsed-with her husband Roger bef()re dying in childbirth a mere two days before
the birth of Mirra.
It was pure luck of a sort that Roger was present within the family at this particular
23
The Sisters of Wendy
moment In history: the Great War was ragIng 111 Europe, and many, if not most, young
husbands were on the continent fighting. Roger had been discharged after the loss of his left
hand in a particularly silly accident involving a supposedly dead shell casing and a load of
perishables being delivered to his squadron. The details have never been very clear, but it is
said that he always elicited a chuckle from his friends when recounting the story. The irony
of his missing appendage was the prompt replacement of hand for hook. According to Wendy
in her diary from the period:
The thrill (if greeting my dear Roger was diminished at the sight '!f the steel barb
attached to hZ:~ If;fi arm. The way the sun glz"nted <iff the hideous thing sent me into a
sudden state (?f horror and revul5ion. "Hook!" was the only word I could utter. As my
husband advanced, I shrank away, .fearing the plank, .fearing the menace (if my
childhood memory. I have asked h£m never to wear it in my presence nor to leave it in
any place where I may encounter it unawares.
Roger, always the loving husband, had a wooden implement fashioned fIX himself that
resembled a hand. In fact, for the next sixteen months until her death, Wendy did her best to
minimize the tragedy by fashioning him lovely gloves to wear over the oaken extremity.
Wendy, Roger and Jane were, by all accounts, a happy family: Roger accepting Peter's
occasional visits to his step-daughter as customary rather than bothersome. At the very least
it proved to him the existence of such a creature. He had met Wendy in France where she
was sent to live with a maiden aunt prior to the birth of Jane. It was the intention of the
family Darling to give the child over fiw adoption to some wholesome, provincial farming
couple and send Wendy home with explanations as to her absence being the result of
introduction into polite society. Roger, being a disillusioned and disinherited man of thirty
with few prospects for any favorable monetary matches, fell in love with Wendy and her
24
The Sisters of Wendy
middle class upbringing in a Cathedral outside of Marseilles. They were married there a
scant month after their first meeting with promises from Wendy's aunt that she would
provide a dowry suitable for setting up house. Papa Darling offered the upper rooms of the
family's modest home as accommodations for the couple, eventually willing the house to
Wendy and Roger (to the dismay of both her brothers). The house was sold some time after
Jane's first trip with Peter, in favor of a newer home in a more upscale district. Roger had
done well to return to English soil and had made the most of the dowry by starting his own
business with a substantial portion of the sum. Fearing that Peter would not be able to fmd
her once Spring cleaning came around, Jane left a map with directions to the new residence
nailed to the casement above the nursery wi ndow. Peter is very good at reading maps.
After many failed attempts at creating an heir, Wendy again found herself with child
only to discover her daughter in an identical state. Because mother and daughter (sister and
sister?) became pregnant at nearly the same time and for the sake of propriety, Roger and
Wendy decided to hide themselves in a remote part of Scotland until the birth of Mirra (the
maiden aunt having passed away years before). Roger eventually claiming Wendy as the
mother and never admitting to his daughter's indiscretion buried his wife in the cold ground
of some wispy Scottish town and returned home a widower, ~ever to remarry. Like myself,
Mirra was raised to believe that her Grandmother was her mother and that her real mother
was an older sister.
This would be the practice fiw the following generations: the stealing away to
foreign--or at least far away-soils, returning with a child that never resembled the
presumed father. For whatever reason, no one close to the family ever questioned this ritual.
This branch of the family has always been deemed a bit eccentric, and so the practice was
overlooked by familial ties. Grammie wasn't taking any more chances though, and thought it
best that we sever our associations before we spirited away to America: she caused a row
between the paternal Darlings (the descendants of Michael and John) which had something to
25
The Sisters of Wendy
do over a bit of property in London. She freely admits that she was not in the right but
needed some excuse to take her leave without fear of future contact. I'm not sure that Peter
keeps tabs on the other branches of my family, but Grammie wasn't going to risk anything.
When we left, we left lock, stock, and barrel, without forwarding address, without an unpaid
bill or unanswered letter to our name.
Finding my mother's diary was not as tragic as it could have been for a teenage girl.
I t was stored in an large steamer trunk in the attic of our old house off Central Avenue. The
trunk had been hidden in the back of the attic behind boxes and suitcases, an old wardrobe
with a broken mirror, and a rack of Grammie's old clothes. It was October, and I had been
sent up to the dusty annex to search out a Halloween costume suitable for a fifties sock-hop.
Grammie never threw away her "good clothes," so there was a terribly nice selection oftafteta
dresses and frilly petticoats, soft angora sweaters, and rhinestone jewelry from the period
(why she carted it all the way from England I have no idea, but it certainly was the catalyst
for my particular part in the "legacy" she so wished to avoid).
While searching through the taffetas, I bumped my sock-clad toe on something hard
just behind the rack of clothes. Thinking I'd discovered another container of sweaters or
maybe shoes, I pushed back the dresses and hefted the trunk forward into the center of the
attic floor. There was no lock-which seems strange to me considering Grammie's insistence
that I grow up without the interference or knowledge of the Pan-but it was still difficult to
open the giant steamer due to layers of dust and years of disuse.
Papa Roger lost his life, and therefore his parental duties to Mirra in the spring of
1925. He was sitting in his favorite chair in front of a small fire and fell asleep. A gust wind
of wind forced its way down the open flew causing some hot ash to blowout onto the stone
26
The Sisters of Wendy
hearth. One of the ashes popped up and landed upon Roger's wooden appendage, catching it
on fire. He was burned alive in his wingback.
By this time Jane had married a young man from Liverpool who kindly became the
step-father to Mirra. (It never ceases to fascinate me that the men my sisters have chosen
have all accepted the fact that their wives were mothers of illegitimate children fathered by a
boy who could fly.) Jane was only six when she came to live with her real mother. By all
accounts, Jane was a very good mother to her daughter/sister, and her husband (Philip) was
an exemplary father. But the appearance of the Pan two days before Mirra's tenth birthday
caused a row in the household that Jane described as "that most utterly terrible day when
one's heart ceases to function properly, when one's brain tUrns to fog." Peter arrived late in
the evening and stole away with Mirra leaving not a trace of his presence. When Jane
insisted it was the Pan and not some Lindbergh-like kidnapping, Philip went into a rage:
He struck me ,ji"rst qlf and then began to throw the furnz~~hings about the room in his
anger. Try as [ might, he would not understand nor accept the innocence rif this visit.
"They are only goingfor Spring cleaning!" l:~ all I could manage to S{~y. But Philip
was convinced that Peter would steal dear lVlirra's maidenhead there and then as he
had mine, as he had my mother's. qr course, he does not know that my lf7endy z:~ also
the sister '!! me as is our daughter. There was a time [ thought [ would be abLe to
bring h£m thl:~ hl:~tory, but now T know it is z:mpossibLe. lIe sit~ in 1I.firra's now with a
hunting rifle spread across his lap waiting/i)r the pair to return . ..
Luckily for Peter, Philip had gone out to make water upon the return from Never
Neverland. Peter did not reappear until the late summer of 1933 when Philip was two years
dead, drown in a merchant boat off the coast of Cardiff Jane had been left a sizable restitution
from the company for which Philip had been sailing. It seems upon close inspection of the
wreckage, the boat had been hauling over its cargo limit-as noted in the log by Philip.
27
The Sisters of Wendy
Philip had insisted that the load be lightened, but the executive in charge had threatened
termination if Philip did not comply with the company's wishes. To prevent a long legal
battle, the said company paid Jane for her silence, and paid in spades--enough to support the
family to this day.
The odors that rose from that steamer held the perfume of fairy dust. I am quite
familiar with the scent now, but at the time I found it quite disturbing. It's impossible to
describe the smell of fairy dust because there is nothing like it in the realm of the known
world. Fairies carry a scent all their own which is easily recognizable and somewhat pleasant
if one knows what a fairy is supposed to smell like. But if one does not, it tends to cause
lightheadedness and nausea. Upon smelling fairy dust for the first time, I immediately ran
down the attic stairs and vomited into the toilet.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, 1 returned to the attic to inspect the
contents of the steamer:
Contents
:H- diaries of various sizes, colors, and condi tion
3 frocks made from leaves and berries--dried and at the point of complete decay
One bag oftairy dust
A book entitled James Hook: A Pirate's Lifo (there lS only one entry which lS not worth
repeating here)
A red feather
A flute carved from dark wood
Numerous pictures of my "sisters" at various ages
28
The Sisters of Wendy
A leather portfolio containing a poem written in longhand entitled: The Song (!fTinker Bell:
translated ~, TVendy Darling
1 think on that day often, for it somehow seems like the first day of my real life. I
gathered the diaries together and brought them back to my bedroom. The first order of
business was sorting the journals into chronological order. That took several hours as some
diaries didn't include the year in their entries, only the day and month. Once that task was
completed. I began to read the fairy tale that is my legacy: about Wendy and Michael and
John, of Tinker Bell and the band of lost boys, of Hook and the pirates, of Tiger Lily and her
tribe, and of the Pan.
All night and into the next day I read the history that had been denied me, and when I
came to my mother's diaries, I reread every line. My mother. Not my sister. But yes, my
sister and my mother. And Grammie ,was sister too as well as Grandmother. It was all very
confusing and painful and thrilling.
In the morning I came down from my room carrying the first diary (Wendy's) and the
last (Mother's) and set them on the kitchen table. Then I returned to my bed and dreamed of
the Pan.
Mirra's pregnancy was a difficult one, and she delivered my Grammie prematurely in
an abandon cottage near the Italian border. Jane was there, along with her second husband
Paul, to assist in the birth and they delivered Jessica into the world at only four pounds. It
was a risk getting the tiny preemie to the nearest town and a competent doctor, but it was the
chance that had to be taken. Mirra and baby Jessica spent the next seven months in
convalescence while Jane and Paul stood close watch.
29
The Sisters of Wendy
Upon returning to the UK, the family purchased a large home in the country, away
from peering eyes or questioning family. Although Grammie was raised on stories of the Pan,
she was warned not to involve herself physically. Mirra's near death was cause for worry
amongst the immediate family, and she did not want her daughter to suffer the same fate.
When Grammie was eleven, Peter came bounding through her bedroom window, not
to be greeted by the joyful face of a expectant child, but by suspicious face of a girl who had
both good and bad about this boy. World War II was just about to come to an abrupt and
sure end, and nerves were still running high. Jessica was taught to fear that which she didn't
know or understand. And Peter, as charming as he could be, was one of those things:
He is strange, and his ways are strange and so is his speech. I cannot tolerate the smell
C!.ffairy dus~ nor can I stomachflying. And ye~ when he plays hisflute, he calm~ me so.
He has not made any overt gestures, but I am prepared . ..
But she wasn't prepared, in fact, from the entries m her journal, it seems she hardly
understood the sexual process at all:
It was painful and messy. [will aplain this situation to mother lest she scold mefhr
soiling my dress. I did not know sharing a h~s would be so entirely unpleasant.
So Grammie learned fast. When mother was born, she swore it would never happen
agam. Jane was not convinced that Gramrnie understood the power of the Pan, and Mirra
could only sigh at the luck that Lindsey was born at the correct time and in a Swiss hospital.
Mirra's husband Thomas was in agreement however, and made himself lord and protector
over both Grammie and Mother. The name Pan was never to be mentioned to the girl, and
Lindsey's room would have bars installed on the windows which could only be unlocked from
the inside, and Thomas kept that key on a gold chain around his neck.
30
The Sisters of Wendy
Young Lindsey was clever though. She had her ear to the wall and listened to the
grownups talking about this fascinating boy who could fly and who knew fairies and pirates
and mermaids. Mother would escape the confines of the house and of Thomas' (and soon
George's) watchful eye and run into the gardens, crowing and crowing and crowing, hoping
that the Pan would hear her.
I did it until J was horse and my throat burnedfrom the crowing. But he came. He CAME!
Oh there he was, magn~fz"cent and beaut~fol and full (if light and lift. He floated outside my
-window, staring through the bars. "Are you my mother?" And that voice, that voice. It took
all my courage and cunning to sneak from my room to the room where Grammie .Jane once
slept. J stuck my head through the window and whispered, "Here." And the happy thought
that I had was f!f this marvelous boy and myselfflying on the wind. Ne.r:t J knew, I was
.floating, and we sped f!ff to Never Neverland.
Grammie wouldn't speak to me; mother was oveljoyed when I called her to tell her I
knew, and George ... well George had washed his hands of it the night Lindsey escaped. "She
was gone for two years!" was all he could say. Grammie reminded me that the shock of
Mother's overdue stay drove Mirra mad to the point where she attempted flight. She
sprinkled herself with fairy dust and was able to get as fa I' as the east garden before
plummeting to the trees below. Presumably she lost her happy thought. She died three days
later in between floating and falling in her bed.
"Call him. Try." My mother whispered to me over the phone. "Don't let them stop
you. And don't let rna start in on the evil legacy rubbish. You're on the Pill, right?"
I was. Had been since the day the school nurse called Grammie into the school
infirmary to tell her I was "a woman." So I began crowing. Not a lot at first, and certainly
31
The Sisters of Wendy
not in places where I might be observed, but I surely did do a lot of it. Grammie told it me it
was of no use: "You're too old for him now. He has to win you over when you're young.
You're almost over the hill by his clock"
For the nex.t year I crowed and crowed into the air of this mid-western town. It got to
the point where I considered Grammie's words as the truth. Not only was T too old, I was
over an ocean and half way across a continent. Could the Pan hear me from that distance?
He came to me in the summer before my junior year in high schooL He stood there in
front of me, so small, and I'm only five foot, two inches. His eyes just met my breasts. "I've
been looking for you." And his voice was like a million angels on the head of a pin. "Are you
my mother?"
"Perhaps." And I knelt down to him, embraced him in my arms, breathed in the heavy
sent ofloam and fairy dust and what I would come to know as the taste of mermaid and the
fury of wind. "Father," I whispered in his tiny ear, "take me home."
32
DR2k
I want to be Donna Reed: Just woke up one morning to the sound of my hormonal alarm clock Blaring away at me with a Bong That rivaled Big Ben's Bell.
Don't get me wrong; I tried to avoid it, tried to reset that clock, fool it into thinking r was a twenty-two year old nymphet without a care or commitment in the world. But you can't stop it from ticking like the bomb that it is tick tick tick KABLOOM
And suddenly ...
I want to be Donna Reed: But not the Black and White Donna Reed-(Not the epitome of womanhood in a pearl choker and high heelsNot that Donna Reed. I want to he the Donna Reed in a pearl helly chain, Thigh high patent leather boots And a g-string. I want to wield my spatula with unavoidable zeal as both a cooking implement and a possible object de l'amore.
I want to be Donna Reed 2000.
Driving around town in her station wagon, or better yet, A Mini Van. Can you imagine me drivin around town in my mini van Dressed to kill in my Donna Reed 2000 outfit Stopping at the market to pick up some groceries Then coming home to my perfect picket fence and Crayola Green lawn Comin home to bake a big ass all American apple pie for my ....
OK, this is the part that I haven't gotten to yet because HIS clock hasn't exactly gotten to the ringing stage. I'm not even sure if it's at the ticking stage.
Here I am Wanting to be bakin cookies While simultaneously covering every square inch of my body in batter and pinning my man to the kitchen table
33
So he can lick it ofr my boot-clad thighs.
Here I am Wanting to be the Nouveau June Cleaver to his rock In roll Ward
(I-loney, would you come upstairs and have a look at the beaver.) And it scares the shit out of him:
(The \\lay he avoids me when I run around the house wearing nothing but a white bra and panties and a towel on my head ... I can tell ... )
For him Domesticity means settling down. And settling down means sex once a week
(ifhe's lucky) In the dark Missionary position vVith the same person Forever.
Forme Domesticity means Donna Reed 2000 The homemaker who has a copy of the Joy of Cooking AND The Joy of Sex on the same shelfin her pantry.
For him I t means the loss of freedom he craves. For me It means sharing my free spirit.
For him I t means facing mortality. Forme It means enjoying life while I have it.
For him It means facing the music. Forme It means singing the song.
For him It means growing old. Forme It means growing up.
34
DR2k
All These Pretty Boys I
This one reminded me of a cat not accustomed to his size. A friend for cigarettes and long car rides,
the way he bites my neck or licks my boot. He left a tattoo of his perfect teeth in the flesh above my pubis
as a reminder to write. lIe fucks for hours-roughly, without smiling. He kisses hard and takes his coffee black.
II This one was over before it started. It was those damn leather pants-the way he stood
three feet away without speaking
until I pulled him along with a thick rope of rum and a promise of saki. Earnest backseat kisses exchanged through October streets
before he made his excuses. He had mass in the morning. Catholic boys are always such teases.
III This one was fine and long. A dark flower, deep voice canyon echoes. A real seducer. And
knowing this, fixated upon his own beauty.
I am suspicious of beautiful boys. Told him so in the yellow hotel light.
"You know you're pretty. This makes me want you less." I lit a cigarette, crossed my legs.
He smiled at me, let down his hair all black ocean water waves and ripples, spread it across me, drowning me with inky strands.
How was I supposed to say no to that?
IV This one is another artist with bone dry hands and two faces both smiling with too many
interesting teeth.
Relishing the chase, he prefers my retreat, wants me to meet his brother, had his heart broken, still doesn't know
the difference between sex and love. He wants more from me than he's willing to admit or I'm willing to give.
36
All These Pretty Boys
He's surprised when I give him drunken kisses. Surprised that I bite his lip. Surprised that I refuse his only invitation into his bed.
v This one was too pretty. Fresh fruit.
Pretty thing with those giant brown eyes always staring right at me when I was speaking.
I want and want.
I'll leave him for a younger hand to pick, though.
No need bruising fresh fruit.
VI This one took my fingers in his mouth; surprised me-the laziness of his sigh against my
hand, his head upon the flesh of my thigh.
It was innocence to me. Kindness on my part to act as pillow, as mother to sleeping childcradle, cradle in the plastic-lined seat
with his heavy head against me, breath (not far from my resting hand) became aimed as lips gently grazed knuckle.
The excuses I made: perhaps he doesn't realize . .. he is on~1' dreaming perhaps . .. until his mouth pressed harder,
his tongue looped around my nail, precise and tight as a boa. "Oh, dear God." I tapped him gently.
Lips upon palm, his fingers circling my Imee cap, my nipples puckering, thighs tensing, the wet between my legs. I made him stop.
This we do not speak of
VII This one I belong to with a voice like sandpaper on rusting tin cans. He owns me like the
stray I am.
All these pretty boys I have, this one binds me with knots too thick and wet to untie. I am fascinated with the curve of his ass as he naps beside me. He holds me against him suddenly, hard.
He tells me I'm cute when I wear sneakers and a short dress. Tells me I snore and steal the blankets
37
All These Pretty Boys
but misses me in his bed all the same. He cut his magnificent hair when I suggested the change.
They live on cherrie.s, they rnn ~d~-: ~ ) \ '-tJ ~.
~ 0 I'd love to be a Fury.s child. ~ '-CJ
39
40
The Girl:
Letter From ~
Includes photo: Jane age 5 with sheepdog
Received September 2, 19_
1l~29, 19"
'J)eca $
Afterthought: A Tinker Bell Story
$(1. I.leIUf ~ b f.tecu /;rom ~ ~ all tJww~. When J f.tecvu:1
~ u.oke (J.n mif ~ ~, J akwd C/UeJ. Jt~ ken too ~.
What ~ ~ me up ULad, thai J Hi 1-cutJ- 1he /JOif Lcut ~/ ;W'f LdtLe
~ (jane, ~?) and J Juwe ~ b ~.Il. b u.Ud 1ome, ~ m {jLemJde,
and J iooIe kA up- k. tIw ~ m {jlzi/Jdk (Jade. 'We Ute'le ~ ~
~~. 1he~~canW~l/na~. 'We~~~
(J.n thai ~ hak air ~ thai~ ~ ~ alxwe dI~, ~ tIw
I.eru went~. "Zjou can 't ~ dee ;i ik:d /M.CUf. 'Wiut ~ 't ~ judi iaIee kA
~ t'row)" Jt w.a4 fum/
'J)amn ik:d u.oice.. Zjou can 't ~ ii, can't iwm~. Bui fIUH ~ witd
J mean. R«jid? die w.a4 ~ up- (J.n the mdaL ~--poUed, cU if he had fud knrkd ~ and coduww cU ~ wdk thai ~ rpp- m hu /;UNd teeth. flood In ~," Vi wk:d he uied b kLL me, /1Hd ~ ~" ZjMl
(lcJIa dla)
die ~ w. ~ $~ ~ b 1.<:Uf ~, b.ut he ~ hded
~ c.aLkd~. J iw.e<U he Iuun 't ~ a Jm,. die ~ fud LJae he did. dI(#A).
bwt ~ Vi it 11/#AJ.-? J ~ 't w.ani: b ~ thai ~ kwk.. /Jut J'm no.i ~.
1kAe Un't a CIlea4e. (J4 a ~ (J4 a 'f'L<Uf hah. dle~ ~ the daIne. JI!J
41
Afterthought: A Tinker Bell Story
J.dH,'t ~ ~, J'd ikde he ~ ddL aLL 01 ~--~ he ~ dauned
b /;e ~ ~ /A)een. J ~ ~ that ~ a lui ~, didn't ~?
1kn ~, J ~ ~ ih /;e ~ ku tk.n ~-frwe· (dla dla)
die ~ alL kt~. !Veut,t tlta[d- odd ~ he and !SeLLe Iffi!/l£ ~
~, ~'t~? 1~ ~ Looked rud ~ rme ~ ~ j ~~.
{j~, dk rpue Ium kJL aLL ik, tune, Iud he 1AJ41n't ik, ea4ied ~ ih Iw.e
wdh. Wk&t j a4ked Ium ~ fJeIk ~, he Looked at me a&-~ j ~ made
It's difficult to keep up with you these days. My big sister tells me you're doing well-but then I read about that in the Times along with the rest of California. Not running with the old crowd I see. Just as well for all of us these days if that period of our lives was forgotten. That's why I was surprised to get your e-mail about Belle.
I've done my best to live down those capricious days of my youth. It nearly cost me Harvard. ~,she can live with the memories to one degree or another, but M_and I are a different story. We were all just boys back then. I would have thought all the kindness my parents showed you would have caused you to leave that particular past behind.
I remember Belle, but I do not think of her. In fact, there are days when I've questioned her existence .. I'm not sure ifI'm relieved or flustered to find that there was such a person. With that said, you can understand why it seems ludicrous to me that I would have any information about the woman.
Leave well-enough alone, S_. You have a lovely wife to keep you happy. You should be working on new memories, not digging up old ones.
We should get together for dinner, bring along our significant others. I'm briving a lecture next month on the effects of flight on WWI German army strategies. I will put your name on the guest list. Perhaps we can have lunch then.
I look forward to meeting with you.
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52
Anonymous:
Postcard:
June 20,19_
~~iA ~.~ ~.lAJ-~~.
"~;t!,~ ..
53
Afterthought: A Tinker Bell Story
6J9
From: The Song o/Tinker Bell
In the trees I would sit and listen to you play your flute. Remember the trees? The banyans
or the rough oaks, the limbs' great strong arms, rocking us like your missing mother? The light? the way it danced
off the lagoon when the moon was a half circle? The mermaids' tails slipping in and out of the water, silver, iridescent.
You sat me in the soft waxy petals of a magnolia blossom, sprinkled me with heady jasmine flowers-thick perfume
lacing my wings. You are my hestfriend, you whispered through the space in your teeth. I will always hate you for this.
54
Lady Frankenstein
She's alive, this creature as loyal as a dog, as precocious as a cat. I lost her, turned her out; now all love parts company easily in her trembling arms. They see her as terribly dangerous; they can't place her in their memory.
She asks me why love parts her company so easily. "I made you this way, for your own good, so people won't place you in their memory and condemn me." Now she's wearing on my nerves.
I made her tough fIX her own good, although she stands here, tender, exposed and begging, wearing nothing but her nerves, demanding asylum-doesn't God provide sanctuary to the penitentP
What makes her terribly dangerous? She's alive, this creature as loyal as a dog, as precocious as a cat.
She's alive.
56
Body of Work
L Dick-tation
All my life they've told me I'm a smart girl with lots of promise. They told me I should have something to fall back on like secretarial work or my ass. They were the experts, so I guess they know best.
They told me I should have something to fall back on, so I went to school and made good grades and made good contacts. They were the experts, so I guess they knew best when they told me J ought to find myself a good man.
I went to school and made good grades and made good contacts, got my Ph.D., got made by men who wanted to make me make them, who told me, "You ought to find yourself a good man, you ought to have drinks with me at six." (Behind every good man is the Ph.D. making his coffee and going down on him at lunch.)
Like a good secretary, I'm told I'm a smart girl with lots of promise.
IL My Body of Work
I have baby making hips, or so I've been told. Hips that could carry the next president of the United States. My body of work has come to this: That I could be the mother of rulers.
These hips could carry the next president of the United States, supposing I could keep you here long enough to help me with the job. That I could bear the ruler of the world presupposes my ability to bear the father of rulers.
But supposing I could keep you here long enough, I'd let you trace the stretch marks of every failed diet and successful depression, because my ability to bear the father of rulers is something I'm infamous for doing.
My body of work has come to this: I have baby making hips.
,,.) , , I
III: Nose to the Bump & Grindstone
In this iniquitous place known as a man's world the most honest job I ever had was as a stripper in a topless bar. They called us exotic as in rare tropical birds prime for the plucking or the pink frothy drinks speared with colorful paper umbrellas.
The most honest job I ever had was as an exotic dancer. Pressing my nipples against the eager faces of well tailored men with cocks resembling pink frothy drinks or colorful paper umbrellas, spurting off load after load in the sparkling tiled bathroom.
Pressing my nipples against their well-tailored cocks, offering them a red gartered thigh as a flesh money clip before the went otf to spurt load after load in the bathroom,
Body of Work
going home to their well-preserved wives, claiming they were too tired to fuck.
I was exotic like a rare tropical bird ... in a man's world.
IV. The Difference Between Nude and Naked
As a girl I used to pull off all of my clothes and run around the house naked. (I've seen pictures of myself wearing the oversized t-shirts of my older brothers.) Standing in front of the mirror, 1'd examine my hairless form amazed at it's simple complexity, it's subtle prosaics, my tiny nipples
before mother would cover me in the oversized t-shirts of my older brothers explaining to me how little boys and bad men weren't interested in my simple complexity, or subtle prosaics, just my tiny nipples, that I couldn't do this all my life, that it wouldn't always be the same when I grew up.
Boys and bad men were never interested in the fine line between nude and naked-but they'll pay te)r either. I learned I couldn't do this all my life without it hurting; without the self criticism or shame.
Now I avoid mirrors, sidestep my hairless form because I want to pull off my clothes and run around the house naked.
58
Write Your N arne in the Space Provided
I been looking to free up some space, free up my hard drive, make room t()r being alive and alone without regrets or obligations. I'm looking to take a holiday from cohabitation (although habit may take some getting used to 'cause I like the sound of your feet walking through my door. But that's just my heart talking, or maybe something.iust as warm, and soggy and sore.)
See, I've shared all I've got with you, but you never put my stuffback where you found it. I found myself walking through rooms trying to walk over it, step around it because it wasn't my mess to clean up. I put things back where they belong when I'm finished with them. I haven't made a mess of things in a long time, and I'm starting to feel downright sloppy.
I'm looking for the greatest wide open: a place to leave my clutter, where I can putter about and think other things. Think all my thoughts and dream all my hopes close a door, open a window forget the sounds 'cept my sounds my heart vibration and timpani creating a visceral symphony that drowns out all you boys who get to me.
Space and time hooked up someplace and left me fending for a table the corner of a bed an empty chair or patch of grass any place 1 could find that I could say was mine all mine a place to stretch out, spread my wings, wriggle my toes, scratch my ass even if no one was looking at my ass. I shared a room with my sister shared a house with my brother
shared various spaces with each new friend and miscellaneous lover that had space to let. Then I tried it with you (though I tend to forget that I promised myself not to give up my spaces for tender voices and pretty faces). I tried it with you and on a trial basis, and I didn't get ofr with a slap on the wrist. Now I'm holding out fix an acquittal because this cell isn't big enough for both of us to exist.
I see space like American Airlines sees the friendly skies;
59
like Captain Kirk sees the fmal frontier: a place to fly myenterprise. r need space because r need to control it. Like they say about virtue, I need to extol it. Space is the only thing left I can claim;
Write Your Name in the Space Provided
it's the only thing left when there's no one to blame but myself and everyone else and you. r think of this space like a young girl's first diary: This space is personal, And waiting to inspire me.
60
Her-sterical
l The Rest Cure
They told her she was hysterical fifteen years after she sailed into the shadow of Lady Liberty.
Hysterical because she cried into her feather pillow at night, refused to enter the soiled corridors of the shoe factory off Main Street,
refused to cook, clean or lay down and be fucked properly by her sunbaked husband.
The green fields and black dirt hills of this new country grew sour in her belly, the smell of oil and leather and refinement.
The new child cried in her crib, the boys went off to the corn and cabbage, and
she was hysterical, dreaming about County Waterford' her mother's soda bread, sewing the buttons on her father's shirts,
making heavy lye soap in the imn pot near the herb garden-the usefulness of it.
Now she was hysterical on a heavy 'wooden table outside of Stafford, the ether dizzying, her arms leaden, her thighs strapped.
There would be morphine later and a strange sore scar, the assurance
that this would make it better as she nailed the wooden heels to the soH leather souls of shoes she would never wear,
IL Sometimes a Cigar is Just A Cigar
They told her she was hysterical after her refusal to marry a good Irish-Catholic boy from a good family,
with his own forty acres and fifty head of dairy cows. Her maiden aunt sent her away
to the man with the long face and dark green sofa after Father Patrick threatened her with the nunnery,
And she was hysterical because she hadn't a penis to fuck with properly there in the paneled
(n
hystericaL· characterized &V, or sujfering ji'om hysteria or uncontrollably emotwnal, or agitated. .
hysteria; marked by a fit of uncontrollable laughter or weeping. From the Greek, sUlJering in the 'womb.
Industrial Revolution: the shi/~ at dijJerent times in different countries, from a traditional agrzculturally based economy to one based on the mec7zanzzed produ~tion rtf manzdadured goods in large-scale enterprises.
I-Vaterford: a city in the South Republic (!l'/rela~nd on the ;<.;;uir River, at the head oJ Waterford Harbour. Settled early in the Christian era, when it was known as Cuan-no-p,T0ith.
hysterecton;y: surgical removal rtf the uterys, one f!1 the most common ?!' all surglcal procedures. After hysterectomy" a woman no longer menstruates, and she IS unable to bear children.
scar: a blemish remaining as a trace of damage or use. A mark- indicating a former point rtfattachment. '
method qf investigating unconscious mental processes to e:rplain causes of neurotic disturbances.
penis envy: something that does not e.n:~t amongst women, only among men.
room with the t()reign gentleman in the heavy suit who
rolled his r's and kept his pointed beak pressed
into the pages of a leather-bound book as thick and daunting as Da's bible, who looked up only to say
vagina, or penis, or ego. And she was hysterical because she hated her mother,
because she wanted to put Da's shrunken cock between her pouting mouth.
The no sound of poetry dripping from her lips as she said, "I do," in front of the boy, her Da, mother, and God:
smell of incense, the sacraments, the asphyxiation of the gold band. And now she never walked past the Gothic turrets
of the university on her way to the market--even though it was the shortest and best route.
IlL Instant Pudding
They said she was hysterical after she refused to hold the cocktail party. "C'm on honey and be a good girl." - "
All those years studying turned into cocktail parties, cocktail dresses, cocktail napkins, and the search for the perfect meatloaf
She was the most well-educated piece of ass in the neighborhood-she knew 50 ways to prepare JELL-O,
40 things to do with powdered milk. so "vays to prepare leftovers. ~o positions to please her husband,
and zero ways to keep herself from going hysterical ",:hen she packed the boys' lunch every mornmg.
And she was hysterical because, "women have it so much easier these days ·loith all these new .. fangled gadgets, . . "
as she pressed the pleats in her skirt, did her lips up deep red, adjusted her pearls, took the yel-
62
Her-sterical
Genesis 19:3,5&36: and the younger daughter ·went and lay with hz:m. So both qf Lot's daughters became pregnant l~y theirfather.
ego: The "[" or sey· qf any person; the conscious, rational component qf the psyche.
Electra Comple.I:: an unresolved, unconscious libidinous desire '!f a daughter for herfather.
-marriage (!i' convenience: a marriage entered into clliif~)'fi)r socia~ politica~ or economic advantage, usu. -without love.
sacrament: any rif several liturgical actions rif the Chri~tian church, believed to have been instituted by Chrl:~t and to communicate the grace 0; power '!f God fhrough the use (if materia I ofvects.
cocktail party: a social gathering, usu. held in the early evening, at which cocktaiL~ and light rifreshments are served.
JELL-O Creamy Fruited Mold: Stir boiling wafer info gelatin in medium bowl at !'east 2 minutes until complete{y dl:~solved, Stir in cold water. Rdrigerate about i-il-/. hours or until slight~)' tlu"ckened (consisfency (if unbeaten egg whites). Genffv stir in 'whipped topping, R~frigerate about i5 minufes or until thickened (spoon drm..on fhrough lea'lIes d~ji"nite impression). Stir infruit. Pour into 5-cup mold.
R(frigerate cj. hours or until.firm. Unmold. Garnl~sh as desired. S'tore ltfjtover gelatzn mold in rf!frigerator,
Valium: Trademark name. A brand (!i'diazepam.
dlazepam: a member C!f the benzodiazepine
low pill "'lith a highball while fixing S'mores.
And she was hysterical because her girdle must be a little too tight these days, as she set her hair,
baked a cake, vacuumed the living room, took the yellow pill with a highball as she thumbed through Good Housekeeping.
And she went hysterical because she had a library of books on the shelf in the attic that she never had time to read, but her hair was perfect
and her figure was still as lithe as a twenty-yearold's, and what if her husband only 1iked twenty
of the ~50 things she knew how to do with her body? She poured another drink,
wriggled into her black cocktail dress, greeting every guest with a smile painted on jungle red.
IV. Her-sterical
They said she was hysterical when she wouldn't stop crying at dogfood commercials.
She'd cry at the drop of a hat or a well-aimed hand on m'mffi~vtliLl1sre kept turning.
The doctors laid it on her thiel, with each synapse pop-popping. She couldn't even look
at the bulbous sky, all cloud roll white and edible blue, without tearing up.
She's become accustomed to her medicines like a
lame duck to water. And she's hysterical. "['d go down on you,for a Xana:J:. Right here infront
qlallihese people. Sa)' yes."
Everyone's doing it, like aerobics or Tai {()ocl. Everyone's doing it like the Peppermint Twist. C'm on baby
Do the Loco-motion.
6S
Her-sterical
family. benzodiazepines are sedatives that cause dose-related depression l.!f the central nerlJOUS system. They are usqul in treating anxiety, insomnia, and muscle spasms.
Sloe Gin Ricky: 2 oz Sloe gin, juice rif 1/2
Lime, Carbonated water, 1 wedge Lime. Pour sloe gin and juice rif lime into a highball glass U7Jer ice cubes. Fill with carbonated water and stir. Drop the wedge l.!flime in glass and serve.
Greyhound: 1 1/2 oz gin, .5 oz grapt;fruit JUlce. Pour ingredients into a highball glass over ice cubes. Stir well and serve.
Slow Comjortable Screw: 1 oz Sloe gin, 1/2
oz .Southern Com/iJrt, Orange juice. Pour sloe gin and Southern Comfort into a collins glass filled 'With ice. Fill with orangejuice, siir 'well, and 5erve.
fluo.retine-a.k.a. PROZAC
an antz- depressant medication that qffects the chemicaL~ that nerves in the brain use to send messages to one another. Many experts believe that it z:~ an z:mbalance arrwng the amounts l.!f the diffirent neurotransmitters that are released that causes depression
paroxetine-a .k.a.
PAXIL sertraline-a.k.a. ZOLOFT
alprazolam-a.k.a. Xana:r. a member qf the benzodiazepine family. See
Valium See Prozac. See Sally. See Sal~y take Prozac. See Sally run. .
.J
And she's hysterical, because she laughs when she
ought to cry. Hysterical, what a laugh.
Because hysterical means funny these days.
Her-sterical
hysterical: causing unrestrained laughter; ver), funny very fUn1~y very funny 'very funny 'l'etyfonny
HaHaHa
Pump & Circumstance
She ran on automatic pilot, pump and circumstance-too too human heart pieced together like an obscene quilt, riveted together with corrugated
stainless steel, silver duct tape and Crazy Glue. The metallic clang of its life-force announced her arrival long before she entered a room.
She was often mistaken for an explosive device. The sinister rewirings offour gilded chambers batTIed even the deftest fingers, raising teardrop rivulets of briny perspiration on the unmarred brows of trained experts.
The mutTIed cowbell quality of percussion that sang from her breast set-off car alarms in all-night parking lots,
Caused grimy forgotten mutts to bay at the new moon, induced rhythm sections to alter their tempo from ~3/ 4· to 6/8.
And if there is such a thing as vampires, they would have mistaken her asphyxiated alloy ticking for an overzealous coffee percolator.
She could not lie, ff)!' the accentuated plunking pulsation eternally revealed her ruse. She could not be IT in hide-and-go-seek, nor would she allow herself to be sought. For though her teet tread as silently as a teline's, though camouflage was second nature, there
\vas no mistaking the muzzled tin pan report Ofthe cardiovascular muscle.
Yet when her heart raced-palpating from the touch of one kind hand, vibrating at the joy of a paramour's kiss-
It pealed intangibly like subdued chimes tinkling; A hidden Glockenspiel peri()l'ming a blithe melody, deep within the recesses of a cave where
no bold spelunker dare lay foot.
Th~ made her dangerous,
65
11411abies
66
Mad Dog and Dirt Weed
cariful poetry and cariful
people last only long enough to
die safely
- Charles Bukowski -
Five years now, and how many times have I walked past your old doors and your numb dick and ass and brain and heart, not knowing which window is yours?
Five years now; I want to haunt your haunts, roll in your unwashed sheets, still rank with the last cum-crusted woman you brought here. I want to smoke the stale tobacco forgotten in a Mexican ashtray on the lip of a junkshop coffee table. Want to chew the skin away from your wrinkled earlobe. One chance to open my legs to your sharp whiskey viscera, your cold hard and wet words, sharper with the thwack of each key beating 24lb paper, writing a poem you know will piss me off, pressed in those iridescent black sparrow wings. One chance to pet that bitch from hell we both get bitten by.
67
One chance to wash your piss-stained trousers just so I can pull them off you agam and again.
Talk dirty. rVe'll walk down Wilshire to LACMA because they've got Van Gogh there now. And if you wan~ I'll buy you lunch at Jerry's or we can just drive up Mulholland drink cold beer and watch what might be a perfict sunset, while you carve, Fuck Bukowski into the oxblood dashboard.
Five years now, and 1 thought you'd die as myth-ridden as Robert Johnson. Thought some jealous husband with his .44
cocked would ... I thought they'd find you and some blue-eyed redhead with nipples like Pike's Peak curled in sweat and a pool of blood curdling screams and your last words would be, "Oh shit ... " Before you shit the sheets.
But it was just hospital gowns and hospital food and I wonder if they let you listen to Wagner or Beethoven or if you tried to finger the candy stripers v.ho brought your orange juice every mormng.
68
Mad Dog and Dirt Weed
I want to show you the train tracks where I used to sit and read you out loud to a pit bull puppy and an English boy with black hair and blue eyes. I want to make your morning coffee, close the door behind me, leave you before you leave me. Maybe ljust want to bump into you at Ralph's, between the liquor aisle and the cottage cheese.
Five years no\'\" and you're the only man-creased with too many black bottles of Mad Dog and dirt weed and love that doesn't stay around long enough to learn your middle name--Yeah, you're the only dead man with a pot belly I'd ever fuck.
-February 5, 1999-
Mad Dog and Dirt Weed
69
Interlude
Your father sat at that table with a pile of crackers and a hunk of
cheddar-another snack to keep him full until he gets his supper. He
sat in there with his cheese, crackers and a belly so big he can't fit the
pants I bought him last year. I'm going to start calling him fat. (If
you want cookies, ask me where I've hidden them-they're on the second shelfdown
behind the big atlas.) He threw a fit when I told him he couldn't eat
anymore. Stormed out of here like a five-year-old. I'mjust trying to keep him
alive for one more year. Sometimes I wonder why I do it.
It's always loud in this house: he's trying to drown out something minatory that no
one eL~e can hear-the bluster '!f his own thoughts must stop him cold
sometimes. Between his wheezing walk and the blockade of his
girth, ' clatter qf chatfy prattle meant to entertain but falling
on deaf ears-we squeeze ourselves against one another./or
something resembling support.
We've gained an interlude, a pause, an intermission from discord briif and surprising as
a first kL~s.
Rifrigerator door yawns at your stare. r ou 're lookingjor something:
the ham you bought this a./ternoon, the pe,:ject tomato, the milk or the butter.
Nana used to stare through that plate glass window--
out past the crumblzng barn where the old Ford sat rotting over the root cellar
staring right through Papa, right through generations lost to her, through the ghost '!fher twin sizzling in the burned
out hull cif a two-seat canoe, staring until your somber eyes became.Jor-clf;n as
Egypt-staring the same way you are now.
70
Goodnight
My mother is sleeping on the dull green sofa. Knees to belly, mouth wide-a fly catching mouth. Above her head, framed in gold, the family portrait two years past. I'm too fat; she, wrinkled as forgotten laundry. I never noticed those lines until she pointed them out. My mother is sleeping while the TV whispers sale and bargain counting off the minutes before time runs out.
71
lullaby #1
It came as a surprise to find myself sleeping. Your gentle conviction: I would undress, crawl beneath the blankets, be all warm skin for you to press into. How long did you sit there poised? "em on, Reenie. Take your clothes off" My eyes peering through skinny slits u h huh, uh huh
You could have undressed me yourself. after all this time, you're too polite to pull my pants down without coital intention. ("Take your clothes rifJ!") But you try lifting my sweater over my ragdoll head, giving up when I roll to the side, hiding like a wool-shelled turtle.
You try reasoning with me, try to explain the logic of disrobing, threaten me with your absence: "1 won't get in until you're naked!"
'You have the sweetest voice I've ever heard on a man It's all lullaby and narcotic kiss pushing me deeper and down into instead (!f pulling me out C!.lmy socks and panties
In the morning I awoke beside you, my skin against yours, wearing you like silk pajamas.
